


Hilt

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry tries to comfort Frodo after his wound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hilt

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set during Flight to the Ford, p268 in my tFotR edition, where Frodo seems to be succumbing to his wound.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They have to rest earlier than they’d like, because Frodo looks like he’s going to fall. Merry and Sam walk on either side of the pony, both trying to eye the road and the way Frodo’s chin bobs against his chest, his face drained of all colour. His cloak covers his wound, but Merry still feels like he can _see_ it, like a black mist rising through the fabric. Frodo’s eyes, normally so bright and blue, are haunted and can’t seem to stay open. He dips up and down with the sway of the pony and no strength of his own, whimpering here and there in muffled pain. By the time they do stop, he looks like an animated wraith. 

Strider turns to come to them, but Frodo’s slipped over the side before Strider can help him. Frodo falls like a ragdoll into Merry’s arms, and Merry catches him, stumbling back but staying up. There were times when they were younger, happier, that Frodo would leap from the bed or chair or rail of the bridge, down into Merry’s arms, and they’d roll back in the grass and laugh together. But now Frodo’s too heavy to carry, and Merry just slumps with him to the ground. 

Strider bids them off the path, finds them a place to hide amidst the foliage, bits of mist here and there still obscuring all their views. The underbrush is thick and prickly underfoot, but by now Merry’s soles are too weather-beaten to notice. He half-carries Frodo into their makeshift camp, and he helps his friend slagger to the earth. Frodo stays sitting for half a minute, trying to look up at Merry with hazy eyes and parted lips. Then he falls against Merry’s chest, and Merry clutches at his dark, sweat-matted hair, kisses his forehead and bids, “It’s alright now, Frodo. Just you rest, and we’ll take care of you.” As best they can. _If_ they can. 

Frodo settles with his head in Merry’s lap. He curls around Merry’s body, like a cat or a blanket, his legs clinging tight to Merry’s and his fingers curled up against Merry’s thighs and ankles. Merry brushes the hair back from his cheek and tucks it behind his pointed ears. Frodo stares at Merry’s stomach with eyes that don’t seem to see.

The others fan out. They have watch to keep, always, in as many directions as they can. Sam looks reluctant to go and doesn’t stray far, but Merry is as fiercely protective as he is and says so with his expression—the Riders will have to go straight through him if they want to touch his Frodo. Frodo’s wound has made his arm go limp, but the rest of him fidgets slightly, squirming into place, while Merry rakes soft fingers through his hair. 

It brings back memories, lying like this, and Merry doesn’t know if it’s good or bad to remember the old times. It makes his heart hurt, but it reminds him of the good in the world. They used to lie in the woods, just like this, and chat softly or loudly and laugh over bad jokes. Sometimes they’d lie like this in Frodo’s bedroom, or in the sitting room, once Bilbo left, and they’d read each other his stories, one reverently reciting the words and the other lounging back to listen. Merry was the pillow more often than not, because he heard the stories less than Frodo and enjoyed having Frodo in his lap. There were other times when the stories would die, and Frodo would turn to kiss him, and their positions would make Merry think of lewd, sinful things, the sort that only Brandybucks would ever dare get up to. And certain Bagginses. For all his innocent beauty, Frodo could be just as naughty, and Merry would touch more than just Frodo’s hair. 

But Frodo is too ill for that now. There’s no playfulness on his fair features, only a sort of strength, determination, a will not to give in to the pain. Merry does all he can to make it easier: massage the terrors away, hold Frodo like old times and try to soothe him. They’ll get back to the Shire someday—Merry’s sure of it, whatever Frodo might think—and they’ll laugh that all this is behind them. 

Frodo whispers quietly, “Will you sing me a song?” Maybe he remembers, too.

Frodo was the one that used to sing. He has a better voice: pretty, like all of him. Merry doesn’t know if he has the spirit for it and answers, “Sam or Pippin would be better at it.”

Frodo doesn’t call for them. He tries to curl closer into Merry, though there’s no room for it, his nose fidgeting against Merry’s crotch as he adjusts. There probably isn’t any position that will be comfortable for him, not with an evil poison in his blood. He winces here and there, and then he mumbles, “I’m scared.”

Merry is too. They all are, he thinks, even Strider. But he tries not to show it and doesn’t stop stroking Frodo. He always thought Frodo was much braver than him, if smaller and less brash. Now he doesn’t have a choice. 

He bends at his waist, pressing a quick kiss against Frodo’s cheek, and he promises as he straightens again, “It’ll be alright. You just rest, and we’ll keep you safe.” It can’t be true, but he means it all the same.

Frodo looks in so much pain. He tries to hide it, but he can never hide long from Merry. They’ve been friends too long. But Merry’s touches seem to soothe him as well as they can, just as they’ve always done. Frodo relaxes against Merry’s lap, until his eyes flutter closed across his cheek, and finally, he begins to sleep. 

Merry continues to pet him, trying to ward off bad dreams.


End file.
